by Nora Roberts
effort with computerized invoices and inventory, client lists and designs, with—"
He was sizing her up. He figured he had about a foot on her in height, probably a good hundred pounds
in bulk. But the woman had a mouth on her. It was what his mother would have called bee stung—pretty—and apparently it never stopped flapping.
"How the hell is having to spend half my time on a computer going to save me anything?"
"Once the data is inputted, it will. At this point, you seem to be carrying most of this information in
some pocket, or inside your head."
"So? If it's in a pocket, I can find it. If it's in my head, I can find it there, too. Nothing wrong with my memory."
"Maybe not. But tomorrow you may be run over by a truck and spend the next five years in a coma." That pretty mouth smiled, icily. "Then where will we be?"
"Being as I'd be in a coma, I wouldn't be worried about it. Come out here."
He grabbed her hand, pulled her toward the door. "Hey!" she managed. Then, "Hey!"
"This is business." He yanked open the door and kept pulling her along. "I'm not dragging you off to a cave."
"Then let go." His hands were hard as rock, and just as rough. And his legs, she realized, as he strode away from the building, ate up ground in long, hurried bites and forced her into an undignified trot.
"Just a minute. Look at that."
He gestured toward the tree and shrub area while she struggled to get her breath back. "What about it?"
"It's messed up."
"It certainly isn't. I spent nearly an entire day on this area." And had the aching muscles to prove it. "It's cohesively arranged so if a customer is looking for an ornamental tree, he—or a member of the staff—
can find the one that suits. If the customer is looking for a spring-blooming shrub or—"
"They're all lined up. What did you use, a carpenter's level? People come in here now, how can they
get a picture of how different specimens might work together?"
"That's your job and the staff's. We're here to help and direct the customer to possibilities as well as
their more definite wants. If they're wandering around trying to find a damn hydrangea—"
"They might just spot a spirea or camellia they'd like to have, too."
He had a point, and she'd considered it. She wasn't an idiot. "Or they may leave empty-handed because they couldn't easily find what they'd come for in the first place. Attentive and well-trained staff should be able to direct and explore with the customer. Either way has its pros and cons, but I happen to like this way better. And it's my call.
"Now." She stepped back. "If you have the time, we need to—"
"I don't." He stalked off toward his truck.
"Just wait." She jogged after him. "We need to talk about the new purchase orders and invoicing system."
"Send me a frigging memo. Sounds like your speed."
"I don't want to send you a frigging memo, and what are you doing with those trees?"
'Taking them home." He pulled open the truck door, climbed in.
"What do you mean you're taking them home? I don't have any paperwork on these."
"Hey, me neither." After slamming the door, he rolled the window down a stingy inch. "Step back, Red. Wouldn't want to run over your toes."
"Look. You can't just take off with stock whenever you feel like it."
"Take it up with Roz. If she's still the boss. Otherwise, better call the cops." He gunned the engine, and when she stumbled back, zipped into reverse. And left her staring after him.
Cheeks pink with temper, Stella marched back toward the building. Serve him right, she thought, just serve him right if she did call the police. She snapped her head up, eyes hot, as Roz opened the door.
"Was that Logan's truck?"
"Does he work with clients?"
"Sure. Why?"
"You're lucky you haven't been sued. He storms in, nothing but complaints. Bitch, bitch, bitch," Stella muttered as she swung past Roz and inside. "He doesn't like this, doesn't like that, doesn't like any
damn thing as far as I can tell. Then he drives off with a truckload of trees and shrubs."
Roz rubbed her earlobe thoughtfully. "He does have his moods."
"Moods? I only saw one, and I didn't like it." She yanked off the kerchief, tossed it on the counter.
"Pissed you off, did he?"
"In spades. I'm trying to do what you hired me to do, Roz."
"I know. And so far I don't believe I've made any comments or complaints that could qualify as bitch, bitch, bitch."
Stella sent her a horrified look. "No! Of course not. I didn't mean—God."
"We're in what I'd call an adjustment period. Some don't adjust as smoothly as others. I like most of
your ideas, and others I'm willing to give a chance. Logan's used to doing things his own way, and
that's been fine with me. It works for us."
"He took stock. How can I maintain inventory if I don't know what he took, or what it's for? I need paperwork, Roz."
"I imagine he took the specimens he'd tagged for his personal use. If he took others, he'll let me know. Which is not the way you do things," she continued before Stella could speak. "I'll talk to him, Stella,
but you might have to do some adjusting yourself. You're not in Michigan anymore. I'm going to let
you get back to work here."
And she was going back to her plants. They generally gave her less trouble than people.
"Roz? I know I can be an awful pain in the ass, but I really do want to help you grow your business."
"I figured out both those things already."
Alone, Stella sulked for a minute. Then she got her bucket and climbed up the ladder again. The unscheduled meeting had thrown her off schedule.
* * *
"I don't like her." Logan sat in Roz's parlor with a beer in one hand and a boatload of resentment in the other. "She's bossy, rigid, smug, and shrill." At Roz's raised brows, he shrugged. "Okay, not shrill—so far—but I stand by the rest."
"I do like her. I like her energy and her enthusiasm. And I need someone to handle the details, Logan.
I've outgrown myself. I'm just asking that the two of you try to meet somewhere in the middle of things."
"I don't think she has any middle. She's extreme. I don't trust extreme women."
"You trust me."
He brooded into his beer. That was true enough. If he hadn't trusted Roz, he wouldn't have come to
work for her, no matter what salary and perks she'd dangled under his nose. "She's going to have us
filling out forms in triplicate and documenting how many inches we prune off a damn bush."
"I don't think it'll come to that." Roz propped her feet comfortably on the coffee table and sipped her
own beer.
"If you had to go and hire some sort of manager, Roz, why the hell didn't you hire local? Get somebody in who understands how things work around here."
"Because I didn't want a local. I wanted her. When she comes down, we're going to have a nice civilized drink followed by a nice civilized meal. I don't care if the two of you don't like each other, but you will learn how to get along."
"You're the boss."
"That's a fact." She gave him a companionable pat on the thigh. "Harper's coming over, too. I browbeat him into it."
Logan brooded a minute longer. "You really like her?"
"I really do. And I've missed the company of women. Women who aren't silly and annoying, anyway. She's neither. She had a tough break, Logan, losing her man at such a young age. I know what that's
like. She hasn't broken under it, or gone brittle. So yes, I like her."
"Then I'll tolerate her, but only for you."
"Sweet talker." With a laugh, Roz leaned over to kiss his cheek.
"Only because I'm crazy about you."
Stella came to the door in time to see Logan
take Roz's hand in his, and thought, Oh, shit.
She'd gone head-to-head, argued with, insulted, and complained about her boss's lover.
With a sick dread in her stomach, she nudged her boys forward. She stepped inside, plastered on a smile. "Hope we're not late," she said cheerily. "There was a small homework crisis. Hello, Mr. Kitridge. I'd
like you to meet my sons. This is Gavin, and this is Luke."
"How's it going?" They looked like normal kids to him rather than the pod-children he'd expected someone like Stella to produce.
"I have a loose tooth," Luke told him.
"Yeah? Let's have a look, then." Logan set down his beer to take a serious study of the tooth Luke wiggled with his tongue. "Cool. You know, I've got me some pliers in my toolbox. One yank and we'd have that out of there."
At the small horrified sound from behind him, Logan turned to smile thinly at Stella.
"Mr. Kitridge is just joking," Stella told a fascinated Luke. "Your tooth will come out when it's ready."
"When it does, the Tooth Fairy comes, and I get a buck."
Logan pursed his lips. "A buck, huh? Good deal."
"It makes blood when it comes out, but I'm not scared."
"Miss Roz? Can we go see David in the kitchen?" Gavin shot a look at his mother. "Mom said we had
to ask you."
"Sure. You go right on."
"No sweets," Stella called out as they dashed out.
"Logan, why don't you pour Stella a glass of wine?"
"I'll get it. Don't get up," Stella told him.
He didn't look quite as much like an overbearing jerk, she decided. He cleaned up well enough, and
she could see why Roz was attracted. If you went for the ubervirile sort.
"Did you say Harper was coming?" Stella asked her.
"He'll be along." Roz gestured with her beer. "Let's see if we can all play nice. Let's get this business out of the way so we can have an enjoyable meal without ruining our digestion. Stella's in charge of sales
and production, of managing the day-to-day business. She and I will, for now anyway, share personnel management while Harper and I head up propagation."
She sipped her beer, waited, though she knew her own power and didn't expect an interruption. "Logan leads the landscaping design, both on- and off-site. As such, he has first choice of stock and is authorized to put in for special orders, or arrange trades or purchases or rentals of necessary equipment, material or specimens for outside designs. The changes Stella has already implemented or proposed—and which
have been approved by me—will stay or be put in place. Until such time as I decide they don't work.
Or if I just don't like them. Clear so far?"
"Perfectly," Stella said coolly.
Logan shrugged.
"Which means you'll cooperate with each other, do what's necessary to work together in such a way for both of you to function in the areas you oversee. I built In the Garden from the ground up, and I can run it myself if I have to. But I don't choose to. I choose to have the two of you, and Harper, shoulder the responsibilities you've been given. Squabble all you want. I don't mind squabbles. But get the job done."
She finished off her beer. "Questions? Comments?" After a beat of silence, she rose. "Well, then, let's eat."
FIVE
It was, all things considered, a pleasant evening. Neither of her kids threw any food or made audible gagging noises. Always a plus, in Stella's book. Conversation was polite, even lively—particularly when the boys learned Logan's first name—the same name used by the X-Men's Wolverine.
It was instant hero status, given polish when it was discovered that Logan shared Gavin's obsession
with comic books.
The fact that Logan seemed more interested in talking to her sons than her was probably another plus.
"If, you know, the Hulk and Spider-Man ever got into a fight, I think Spider-Man would win."
Logan nodded as he cut into rare roast beef. "Because Spider-Man's quicker, and more agile. But if the Hulk ever caught him, Spidey'd be toast."
Gavin speared a tiny new potato, then held it aloft on his fork like a severed head on a pike. "If he was under the influence of some evil guy, like . . ."
"Maybe Mr. Hyde."
"Yeah! Mr. Hyde, then the Hulk could be forced to go after Spider-Man. But I still think Spidey would win."
"That's why he's amazing," Logan agreed, "and the Hulk's incredible. It takes more than muscle to battle evil."
"Yeah, you gotta be smart and brave and stuff."
"Peter Parker's the smartest." Luke emulated his brother with the potato head.
"Bruce Banner's pretty smart, too." Since it made the kids laugh, Harper hoisted a potato, wagged it.
"He always manages to get new clothes after he reverts from Hulk form."
"If he was really smart," Harper commented, "he'd figure out a way to make his clothes stretch and expand."
"You scientists," Logan said with a grin for Harper. "Never thinking about the mundane."
"Is the Mundane a supervillain?" Luke wanted to know.
"It means the ordinary," Stella told him. "As in, it's more mundane to eat your potatoes than to play with them, but that's the polite thing to do at the table."
"Oh." Luke smiled at her, an expression somewhere between sweet and wicked, and chomped the potato off the fork. "Okay." After the meal, she used the excuse of the boys' bedtime to retreat upstairs. There were baths to deal with, the usual thousand questions to answer, and all that end-of-day energy to burn off, which included one or both of them running around mostly naked.
Then came her favorite time, when she drew a chair between their beds and read to them while Parker began to snore at her feet. The current pick was Mystic Horse, and when she closed the book, she got
the expected moans and pleas for just a little more.
'Tomorrow, because now I'm afraid it's time for sloppy kisses."
"Not sloppy kisses." Gavin rolled onto his belly to bury his face in the pillow. "Not that!"
"Yes, and you must succumb." She covered the back of his head, the base of his neck with kisses while he giggled.
"And now, for my second victim." She turned to Luke and rubbed her hands together.
"Wait, wait!" He threw out his hand to ward off the attack. "Do you think my tooth will fall out tomorrow?"
"Let's have another look." She sat on the side of his bed, studying soberly as he wiggled the tooth with
his tongue. "I think it just might."
"Can I have a horse?"
"It won't fit under your pillow." When he laughed, she kissed his forehead, his cheeks, and his sweet, sweet mouth.
Rising, she switched off the lamp, leaving them in the glow of the night-light. "Only fun dreams allowed."
"I'm gonna dream I get a horse, because dreams come true sometimes."
"Yes, they do. 'Night now."
She walked back to her room, heard the whispers from bed to bed that were also part of the bedtime ritual.
It had become their ritual, over the last two years. Just the three of them at nighttime, where they had once been four. But it was solid now, and good, she thought, as a few giggles punctuated the whispers.
Somewhere along the line she'd stopped aching every night, every morning, for what had been. And
she'd come to treasure what was.
She glanced at her laptop, thought about the work she'd earmarked for the evening. Instead, she went to the terrace doors.
It was still too cool to sit out, but she wanted the air, and the quiet, and the night.
Imagine, just imagine, she was standing outside at night in January. And not freezing. Though the forecasters were calling for more rain, the sky was star-studded and graced with a sliver of moon. In
that dim light she could see a camellia in bloom. Flowers in winter—now that was something to add to
the plus pile about moving south.
She hugged her e
lbows and thought of spring, when the air would be warm and garden-scented.
She wanted to be here in the spring, to see it, to be part of the awakening. She wanted to keep her job. She hadn't realized how much she wanted to keep it until Roz's firm, no-nonsense sit-down before dinner.
Less than two weeks, and she was already caught up. Maybe too much caught, she admitted. That was always a problem. Whatever she began, she needed to finish. Stella's religion, her mother called it.
But this was more. She was emotional about the place. A mistake, she knew. She was half in love with the nursery, and with her own vision of how it could be. She wanted to see tables alive with color and green, cascading flowers spilling from hanging baskets that would drop down along the aisles to make arbors. She wanted to see customers browsing and buying, filling the wagons and flatbeds with containers.
And, of course, there was that part of her that wanted to go along with each one of them and show them exactly how everything should be planted. But she could control that.
She could admit she also wanted to see the filing system in place, and the spreadsheets, the weekly inventory logs.
And whether he liked it or not, she intended to visit some of Logan's jobs. To get a feel for that end of the business.
That was supposing he didn't talk Roz into firing her.
He'd gotten slapped back, too, Stella admitted. But he had home-field advantage.
In any case, she wasn't going to be able to work, or relax, or think about anything else until she'd straightened things out.
She would go downstairs, on the pretext of making a cup of tea. If his truck was gone, she'd try to have
a minute with Roz.
It was quiet, and she had a sudden sinking feeling that they'd gone up to bed. She didn't want that picture in her head. Tiptoeing into the front parlor, she peeked out the window. Though she didn't see his truck, it occurred to her she didn't know where he'd parked, or what he'd driven in the first place.
She'd leave it for morning. That was best. In the morning, she would ask for a short meeting with Roz and get everything back in place. Better to sleep on it, to plan exactly what to say and how to say it.
Since she was already downstairs, she decided to go ahead and make that tea. Then she would take it upstairs and focus on work. Things would be better when she was focused.